


With These Hands

by Aikori_Ichijouji, AkisMusicBox



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Huddling For Warmth, Hypothermia, Like I can't get over how liberaly I used swearing in this one, M/M, Minor Character Death, Referenced Near Drowning, Sharing a Bed, Swearing, a lot of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27705455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aikori_Ichijouji/pseuds/Aikori_Ichijouji, https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkisMusicBox/pseuds/AkisMusicBox
Summary: "Do you have to leave?"Geralt turns back. He gives one single, regretful nod."Geralt, I'm scared."Geralt nods, again, not trusting himself to find the right words beyond, "It will be over soon. Trust me and save your strength."Jaskier saves a little girl from drowning, only to start slipping away himself. Geralt's not going to let that happen, no matter what.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 288





	With These Hands

**Author's Note:**

> AKA: And There Was Only One Bard
> 
> persephonekyoko wanted to see a "and there was only one bed" Geraskier and we... went a bit off of the brief. Bon appetit!

"Thank you so much, Geralt of Rivia," the tavern over, Parth, said for the thousandth time. He'd brought Geralt to his own quarters, fed Geralt his own meal and beer, and gave him the largest purse of coin he had. Technically, Geralt hasn’t made an arrangement with the tavern owner ahead of time, so he feels somewhat bad for accepting the money, but it wasn't all for him.

The town healer is tending to the tavern owner's daughter, a girl of six whose curls were clinging to her deathly pale face. She is cold and she has wounds that needed tending to before they became infected, but the girl would live. But not thanks to Geralt.

"Save some of that thanks for Jaskier in the morning," Geralt says, then drinks deeply. He needed some warmth in his limbs as well.

"Of course, of course. He has been put in our nicest room and the fireplace is roaring. I'll take him up a meal soon,” Parth says, more to himself, his gaze going back to his daughter.

Geralt exhales. "Point me in the right direction. I'll take it."

"Witcher, I can't ask any more —"

"You didn't ask. I decided for myself."

Grateful, he quickly fetches a tray and points Geralt up the stairs. His legs feel like lead as he makes his way and when he finds the door, knocking was a chore. But he did.

Jaskier doesn’t reply.

Fortunately for the door, it isn’t locked. It’s sweltering hot in the room, but on the bed opposite the wall, Jaskier is buried under a pile of blankets, pulled up to the chin. His hair is plastered to his head. His skin is deathly white everywhere except his eyes, where Geralt could have counted every dark vein running through the heavy lids. When Geralt enters, Jaskier's mouth opens slightly and even for him, it’s nearly too quiet to hear.

"Geralt."

He looks no better than he did when Geralt helped him and the girl out of the icy river mere hours before. His first assumption was Drowners and prepared his silver sword for imminent combat. But Jaskier simply wrapped the child in the doublet he'd taken off before diving in. She fell, apparently, after playing too close to the water's edge.

Geralt lent the bard his cloak for the remainder of their journey, even offering to let him sit on Roach, but he refused. Instead, he placed the girl astride the saddle and shivered on foot the entire trek to her home. He wondered if he inadvertently became some sort of role model for Jaskier, making death-defying rescues and the like. Then again, Jaskier has always done as he pleased.

"P-please tell me that's s-soup," Jaskier stammers between chattering teeth. "I haven't the s-strength for ch-chewing."

Geralt looks down at the bowl of congealing stew in his hands. "Close enough."

The blanket pile shifts as Jaskier tries to pull himself upright. He ends up in an awkward lean and gives up, letting the bundled blankets hold him in place. An equally pale arm snakes out and weakly motions for Geralt to come closer.

"Just leave it h-here on the b-bed."

"Not going to ask one of the tavern girls to feed it to you?"

Jaskier's answering glare is tired and lacking but Geralt understands the sentiment. It is still odd. Since when has Jaskier ever objected to being pampered? He really has picked up odd habits from hanging around a Witcher.

He puts the bowl down next to the lump of bard and blankets. Stepping back, he surveys Jaskier once more, watching the subtle tremors shifting the fabric. Jaskier fiddles with the spoon, shifting bits of meat and potato around the bowl. Even the spoon trembles.

"It's hotter than a cauldron in here. How are you still cold?"

"P-problem of just h-having a h-human body," he manages. It's an effort to put some potato and broth in his mouth, but when it is, his eyes close for a moment, and there's a half-pleased, half-pained grunt. The spoon slips from trembling fingers and clatters on the tray.

Geralt nearly says 'but the girl is fine', but doesn't, because Jaskier is in no position to parry the jab. "Well that human body saved the girl. And the girl's father wants to reward that body with a fair amount of coin. Not bad for a single rescue."

Jaskier just stares at the spoon. 

Getting the silent treatment from a bard did not sit well with Geralt. "Did you hit your head? A wound you're not telling me about?"

The shake of Jaskier's head is more of a shiver than anything. "I saw something," he whispers. "The air left my l-lungs and the s-strength my b-body. I saw nothing but bl-black. And then I s-saw something and that s-something was worse."

"Water hag?" Geralt asks, racing through the bestiary in his mind to recall every type of aquatic monster he knew. 

"W-whatever it was, it w-wasn't c-corporeal." Jaskier just shakes again. Or, perhaps, he just continues shaking. "P-passed right th-through me."

Geralt's hands tighten into fists. A wraith, in a river? Typically they haunt the places they frequented in life so the idea isn't too farfetched. Wraiths have a nasty knack for flitting about, all immaterial and lamenting their inability to move on. Makes them a particularly pesky lot that feeds on their own resentment. 

It certainly explained Jaskier's predicament; the haunted eyes and constant shiver. For Geralt, a wraith's touch can chill to the bone but he'll recover from it within a few hours. But, as he was just reminded, Jaskier is human. His stomach bottoms out when he remembers the words of a gasping, portly merchant he saved from a wraith years ago

_"Felt as if the life were bein' drained right out of me."_

Geralt spits a sharp curse into the suffocating heat of the room.

Geralt touches Jaskier's cheek. He could feel the traces that the wraith’s touch left behind, draining him as ice drains heat. "Nothing you won't be able to write about in the morning. But I have to do one thing first." He turns and heads towards the door, but stops when he hear Jaskier once more.

"Do you have to leave?"

Geralt turns back. He gives one single, regretful nod.

"Geralt, I'm scared."

Geralt nods, again, not trusting himself to find the right words beyond, "It will be over soon. Trust me and save your strength."

The hollow, wavering reply of, "Okay," haunts Geralt as he leaves Jaskier's room. In the next moment, he's pulling Parth from his daughter and into the hallway.

"Why was she playing by the river?" Geralt says, not releasing the tavern owner's arm.

"It's where her mother died," he says. "She tries to find her mother's necklace, too."

"Where's the body buried?" Geralt asks. When the tavern owner doesn't reply, Geralt squeezes his arm.

"I didn't," Parth answers through a grunt. "She was a cheating whore and that's where she'd meet her lover. The body's stuck at the bottom of the river so it only seemed fitting."

" _Fitting_?" Geralt is ready to break the arm, but realizes it'd only make saving Jaskier take longer. "Because of your pettiness your daughter was nearly killed by a wraith. That wraith is slowly killing my bard, so tell me, is that _fitting_?"

Parth turns pale. "I - I didn't mean to! And I didn't kill her! I kicked her out of the house and told her to move in with her lover, but I didn't lay a hand on her."

"She wants to be with her child." Geralt has to let go before anger takes him. "You are going to build a bonfire behind this tavern and while you do it, you're going to figure out what to tell your daughter. And when I return, we're going to burn your wife's bloated corpse so that she can rest in peace."

"No," the tavern owner asks,"no, she doesn't know, I can't possibly --"

"Or, the whole tavern will become the bonfire," Geralt says. "Your choice."

* * *

Searching the banks of a winter encrusted river isn't exactly the worst thing Geralt has had to do in his line of work. However, it certainly places higher than offing random monsters who plague farms and villages. That sort of thing is almost pleasant by comparison. It's one thing to have to track a body. It's another to have to track a body in the winter beneath a blanket of snow.

He's at least grateful that he has the moon by which to retrace their steps, rather than navigating blindly in pitch black night. It reflects blue-white off the surface of the snow, making the darkened parts stand out where it had been disturbed during their rescue. Geralt unsheathes his blade and slowly coats it in oil. It would be nice if he doesn't have to use it, but years of experience has taught him to always be prepared.

He wades into the river, thankful the ice has slowed its current considerably, and waits. It's not long before he feels the static in the air, the one that raises the hair on the back of his neck. The wraith appears before him, faintly formed and hardly human. It holds a lantern in one ghostly hand but the other, much to his relief, is not wrapped around a weapon.

"I'm not here to hurt you," Geralt begins as gently as he can. "I'm here to put you to rest. So you can move on."

The wraith floats above the water's surface and doesn't respond in movement or words. Geralt sighs.

"I want to help your daughter retrieve your necklace," he tries again.

This gets a reaction. The wraith floats past him further downstream. Geralt watches it until it stops in a particular spot and waits. He follows after it.

The body is trapped in the silt on the shallow side of a bend in the river. The past months of colder weather prevented it from completely rotting away. Carefully digging it free, he loads the corpse onto the small wooden cart he borrowed and hitched to Roach. He thanks the wraith before climbing back onto his horse. Still it says nothing.

He stops when the moonlight catches on something glinting in the dead woman's hand. Geralt pulls it loose to reveal a large, tarnished silver locket. Well, the girl will be happy about that, at least. Yanking a glove off with his teeth, he fiddles with the clasp to open it, curious to see if the contents inside were ruined while submerged in the river. It takes several inelegant attempts until it pops open and something inside, drops to the ground. Geralt bends to pick it up and finds a tightly folded piece of oiled paper with grease pencil writing on it.

He makes haste back to the tavern and finds the owner standing by the requested bonfire. Before even unloading his cargo, he shoves the cold, dripping paper in Parth’s face.

"She wasn't cheating on you," he growls. "She was being extorted."

"But I saw them— " He freezes when he realizes that it is his own wanted poster. 

"Most notorious thief in Redenia disappeared ten years ago without a trace," Geralt continues. "You've grown fat, but the sketch is enough to convict you."

The shadows that the fire casts on Parth’s face reflect the horror within. "She - she changed me," the ghost of his voice says. 

"Clearly not enough," Geralt says. He presses the locket into the tavern owner's hands and sets about his grim work. He should say some words, give the man time to say his goodbyes, but Geralt has his own promises to keep. An aspen stake, for good measure, is plunged in the body's heart before it's hefted onto the pyre. 

The tavern owner's howling echoes through the night as Geralt races inside. _Work, please, please let this work._ He doesn't know who he's begging for help, but it never hurt in a situation like this. 

He doesn't bother knocking before busting in the door. "Jaskier!"

Jaskier is a shuddering ball of fabric in the center of the bed. The tray of food long since forgotten and fallen to the floor. Geralt rushes to him, pulling back the top layer of blanket to find his face. He's pale to the point his skin has a bluish tint to it. His lips are thin and purple.

"G-G-Geralt," he forces out, small and frail. "I th-think I'd l-like that t-t-tavern girl now, or any other w-warm body-y."

Geralt litters the air with another foul curse. 

The body is waterlogged. It will take considerable time for even a bonfire to reduce it to ash. Time Jaskier doesn't have before he succumbs to hypothermia, leaving the world short one bard. And leaving Geralt short one person he begrudgingly cared about.

He peels back the layers surrounding Jaskier with one hand while unbuckling his armor with the other.

"W-what are you d-d-doing?"

Geralt's hum is flat and gravely. "You once slathered chamomile on my ass after I bested a selkiemore. I'm just returning the favor."

Geralt kicks off his boots as well and slips under the covers. Jaskier's trying to say something through chattering teeth, but fails utterly when Geralt pulls the covers back over them. "H-h-haaaa-ah-ah," Jaskier hisses. Geralt's not even touching him yet.

"We have to be slow," Geralt says, watching Jaskier's shocked expression. "Otherwise, it's going to hurt. But we can't leave you in this state until the wraith is gone, either."

"W-wraith? I really was going to d-d-die, wasn't I?" he asks quietly. "I wasn't b-being a c-c-coward?"

"You were, yes," Geralt says. "The girl would have succumbed before we arrived in town. Now, you just need to stay warm until the body is ashes."

Jaskier gives the smallest chuckle that struggles out of his throat. "How about th-that?"

Geralt scowls. "How about that? How about the fact that I was nearby and you would have never gotten in this state if you'd called for me?"

Jaskier looks down. "How long have I known you G-Geralt? How long have I just h-hid behind your s-skirts when things get tough?" He slides his hands out, looking at them. "I wanted to do some real g-good with these hands. Make a real d-difference.”

The delicate fingers on those hands were turning an ominous shade of purple. "Fuck," Geralt swears and grabs them, pressing Jaskier's palms to his chest.

"Fuuuuck," Jaskier swears and Geralt has to restrain himself from doing the same. It was positively painful for Geralt to have those ice blocks on his chest, but it had to be worse for Jaskier. "Fuckfuckfuckfuck," Jaskier goes on, trying to pull away, but Geralt has a vice around Jaskier's wrists. "Geralt," he chokes.

"No more lute if you lose your damn fingers," Geralt says. "Pretty shitty bard without an instrument." Realizing there were other extremities likely in immediate danger, Geralt bends his knees and presses the tops of his feet to the bottom of Jaskier's.

Jaskier curls inward and gasps another, "Fuuuuck!" Geralt would have almost felt bad about it if there wasn't so much energy behind the exclamation. He wasn't slipping away yet. They still had time.

There are tears in Jaskier's eyes when he says, "Dammit, dammit, I just wanted to be useful for once."

"Being useful does not mean being careless." Geralt allows himself a small bit of relief at the feel of Jaskier's fingertips starting to thaw. "If you're gone, who will sing inspiring tales of monsters and heroes?"

"I'm not the only bard around these parts." Jaskier's trembling is peppered with whimpers.

"You certainly seem like it," Geralt says with a short, low laugh. "Or you were stalking me."

"I was definitely stalking you."

Geralt sighs. "That does not surprise me."

Jaskier moves closer, clearly less pained by their contact. Geralt takes that as a sign to curl around him, enveloping him in as much warmth as possible. It's boiling hot under all those blankets but Jaskier remains a — slightly less — icy oasis.

"You should be flattered," Jaskier quips with just a touch of his usual cheekiness.

Geralt presses the bard's head to his chest. Probably more firmly than he should have, if the muffled yelp is any indication. The methods available to successfully silence Jaskier are far too few. He considered trying another, but his angle of approach was less than ideal.

"You should be quiet."

For once in his life, Jaskier actually listens to him and, between the silence and stifling heat, Geralt falls asleep.

* * *

At some point in the middle of the night, when the fire had died down, Geralt wakes up. Jaskier is still curled into him. With an exhale and then a full body shiver, Jaskier's eyes open. 

They are still tired, but his skin was only pale, not deathly. A smile creeps across his face. 

Geralt smiles back and strokes Jaskier's cheek. Then, he runs his fingers through Jaskier's hair, in long and gentle movements. Jaskier's eyes grow heavy once again and he quickly slips back into sleep. 

And when he does, Geralt's hand finds Jaskier's back.

**Author's Note:**

> Ya'll being so generous with your kudos has done nothing to discourage our nonsense. What is this fandom?!?


End file.
